The Stuff of Nightmares
by Dr. Incrediblastic
Summary: SPOILERS FOR STAR TREK: INTO DARKNESS The doctors had said he couldn't dream in cryo-sleep; then again, when it came to Khan Noonian Singh, the doctors rarely ever knew what they were talking about. Lying down in the pod, he knew that the past would haunt his dreams. But dreams have an odd way of twisting things into how we wish they were...
1. The Inspector and the Addict

_1.23.2018_

Sergeant Gregory had never intended to be a drill sergeant; he was a paratrooper. But after he lost his right arm (in a training accident of all things, after 15 years of service), his pension was barely enough to buy him the cardboard box he would need to survive the winter under a bridge on the Thames. Lucky for him, a friend of his in the Indian Army was part of some sort of experimental training project and recommended him to his superiors. At first, Gregory had only taken the job begrudgingly. When they gave him a new arm, though, he was sold. Within a month of his starting his integration into the Indian Army he was an Indian citizen (his application had been fast-tracked because of the priority level of his project), and was ready to begin his job: training a fifteen year old brat.

It was a bit anticlimactic, and rather puzzling. He was only training _one_ soldier, and that "soldier" was so young that to call him "cadet" felt like a stretch. Even when it was explained that Cadet Khan Noonian Singh was the project of significant genetic engineering, essentially a human weapon, and he was to train him to fulfill his potential, it seemed like a rather poor job for a man who used to jump out of airplanes behind enemy lines for Queen and Country. Nevertheless, these people had given him a new start, and he certainly wasn't going to let them down.

The day that Gregory was brought to the training facility for the first time, none of his doubts had subsided. In fact, as he watched the pasty white, lanky boy run the obstacle course, his doubts only increased: he looked like a twig that would break in a stray wind-a decidedly _western_ twig, as well.

"Doesn't really look like a 'Khan,'" Gregory observed quietly.

"Sir?" the private-a man with dark skin and an accent that attested to the authenticity of his Indian citizenship-asked.

"Nah, just looks a bit pale for an Indian, is all," Gregory repeated. In reality, he was referring to how unsuited the skinny lad was to share names with the fabled Mongol warrior, but far be it from him to question the success of India's super-soldier project.

"He's imported, sir. Our scientists couldn't get any of our augments to live past two until we got a look at him; this one was purchased from the UK's backup supply. Got him for a bargain, even if he is sub-par." Gregory ground his teeth.

"Nice of 'em, that. Did he come with the 200 year regression in human rights, or was that extra?"

"Sir?" Gregory sighed.

"Nevermind. Dismissed, Private." The private saluted and walked away, still looking confused. Gregory turned towards the "import." He finished the course barely half a second ahead of the best time on the board. The sergeant frowned. With what he knew about the Augment program, he should be able to beat that time by a much better margin. At first he shrugged it off as a consequence of Khan being "sub-par," as the soldier had put it (it was hardly surprising that the British government wouldn't give India its best and brightest to poke and prod to figure out why their science project had failed). Then he saw the boy walk off the obstacle course.

He was dry as the Sahara, not a bead of sweat on him, his breathing steady as a drummer's beat and light as a summer breeze. He had finished the course with the best time on record and wasn't even winded.

Khan wasn't sub-par, Gregory realized, a sense of awe washing over him. He was _coasting._

And then, just as quickly, the awe was replaced by anger. The boy was capable of so much and _he was coasting!_

Khan looked up at his new drillmaster, awaiting the nod of approval that would send him back to the locker room to prepare for evening meal. Boy, was he in for a surprise.

"Do it again," was all Gregory said. Khan blinked, confused.

"Why?"

"I'm your new instructor; I don't need a reason. Do it again." Khan's eyes snapped with anger, but he nodded and obeyed.

This time, Khan finished half a second below the fastest time.

"You're holding back. Again; this time like you mean it." Khan furrowed his brow.

"I can match the best time-"

"I don't care. As good as anyone ain't good enough. Again."

At last, Khan seemed to understand. This time, Khan beat the best time by a minute. Gregory forced him to do it again, and beat it by ninety seconds. A hundred seconds.

The last time around, Khan made it two minutes faster than the prior best time. Exhausted, Khan fell to his knees and vomited on the ground.

"Want it again, _sir?"_ he gasped defiantly.

"Did you see your time?" Gregory asked, trying to keep the pride out of his voice.

"No, sir." Gregory lowered the timepiece to Khan's level. To Gregory's surprise, the boy knocked it away.

"What was that?" Gregory demanded.

"_That_ is what I care about my time," the boy gasped out as he stood up. Gregory stared after him.

"Where do you think you're going? I haven't dismissed you yet!" Instead of deferring to Gregory's authority, Khan raised his hand and gave Gregory an obscene salute. Flabbergasted, Gregory could only stare after the boy. He shouldn't have been quite that shocked; he had known training a soldier was no easy task.

He just hadn't anticipated how _hard_ it would be.


	2. The British Government and the Pirate

_3.2.2011_

Alan Hart was getting bored. He had spent the last five hours interviewing snotty little super-brats-the first of the Augment project-to evaluate their intellectual and emotional progress. The first one was interesting-her devotion to serving mankind and well conceived answers were unusually well-developed for an eight year old-but within five minutes of hearing the second child say the exact same thing, almost verbatim, Hart realized they were parroting whatever propaganda they had been feeding them. Adding insult to injury was the fact that little brats were all named after great British authors.

This skinny, pale-faced, dark haired boy was the tenth child in a long line of little parrots on steroids. Alan felt annoyance rising as the child fidgeted. This one didn't even have the discipline to hold still.

"What's your name?" Hart asked.

"Joey Conrad, sir." Hart blinked.

"You mean Joseph Conrad."

"No, sir, that's not my name."

"But that's the name on your paperwork."

"But it's not my name, sir; that's the name of some writer bloke." Ooooookay then.

"Alright, then…Joey…Do you enjoy your classes?"

"No, sir." _That_ was original; the other children had all sung the praises of education and spoken of how important knowledge was to their future as defenders of Britain.

"Why not?"

"I'm so BOOOOOORED." Despite his usually very controlled disposition, Hart had to bite hard on his tongue not to burst out laughing at this. Misinterpreting the strange look on his caseworker's face as disapproval, the boy quickly resumed military posture. "I mean…Bored, SIR."

"I see. And why are you bored?"

"'Cuz all they do in class is learn easy stuff, and then say the same stuff over and over again so we'll remember it exactly for when the British Government comes to see our progress. Sir." This boy was either too stupid to realize he was outing his teachers, or too clever for his own good.

"I see."

"I don't think the British Government would like that we're just learning to say what they want to hear. Sir."

"Really?"

"No, sir. I think they'd rather hear us tell them the truth, sir, because we're supposed to tell the truth when we tell them about what we can do, sir, and lying about what we think, sir, is wrong, sir, because I'm right, sir."

"Are you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Are you right about the British Government?"

"Yes, sir."

"Why do you think that?"

"Because you're smiling at me, sir." Hart cocked his head.

"And what does that have to do with anything?"

"Because you _are_ the British Government." Hart's smile disappeared. The boy was _extremely_ clever.

"Very good. Do you know why I'm here?"

"To decide if I'm going to become a soldier, sir."

"Don't you think your teachers know how to convince me to make you a soldier?"

"No, sir. They're idiots." Well, don't sugar coat it, Joey. "But I don't want to be a soldier anyway, sir."

"Oh?"

"No, sir."

"What do you want to be, then?" The boy's eyes lit up.

_"A pirate, sir!"_ For the next fifteen minutes, Hart let the boy go on and on and on about how he wanted to be a pirate, plundering ships with an eyepatch and a hook and a peg-leg, and how he'd lock capture ship captains and take their ships and make them walk the plank and then lock them away in the brig (in that order). He never got to the questions about protecting other people or serving his country or whether he wanted to kill people.

And then, when it was time for the boy to leave, Hart wrote down exactly what he had written for the others.

_Devoted, articulate, and intelligent. Great potential._

For now, it was best for Joey Conrad to fly under the radar. But Hart would keep an eye on the lad.

Maybe Dread Captain Conrad would need a first mate.


	3. Every Time You Open Your Mouth

_11.12.2020_

Khan _hated_ Amrit Sohn. It was a bit ironic; Khan was the reason that Amrit hadn't died of genetic complications as a toddler, and there wasn't a moment he spent in the boy's presence that he didn't spend wishing he could have prevented that. Ostensibly, it was because Amrit was an idiot, which, while an exaggeration, wasn't entirely false; Amrit wasn't the cleverest soldier Khan had ever met, but, then again, he was only fourteen. In reality, though, Khan was jealous of Amrit.

Amrit was everything Khan would never be: he was the first truly Indian augment; he was charismatic and likable; he was the best of the best-better, the doctors claimed, than Khan. He was, in short, the face and future of the Indian Augment program, and everyone, from the doctors to the drillmasters to the press, loved him.

Khan, on the other hand, was the ugly step-child of the Augment program; that embarrassing secret that everyone liked to ignore. _He's not really one of us_, everyone knew. _No, you only needed me because your own science was rubbish because you couldn't keep any of your scientists from going overseas to work on **other countries' Augment Programs(!)**_, Khan would mentally retort, but never say aloud. It certainly didn't help that Khan acted as though he would rather be anywhere but where he was, but one could hardly blame him when everyone else acted as though they would rather that, too.

And Amrit knew it; the little brat _knew_ who he was and what Khan was. And he always made sure Khan didn't forget.

Just another reason Khan hated India. Just another reason he hated being Khan Noonian Singh.

Another reason why, much as he would try to forget the past and hate everyone who was part of his old life, he would sometimes whisper his old name to himself in the dark.

_Joey Conrad. My name is Joey Conrad._

But it wasn't-not anymore. And Amrit Sohn wouldn't let him forget it.

"Hey, _Khan,"_ the brat called to Khan as he left the locker room as the training facility to prepare for the training course. Khan silently groaned.

"What is it, Sohn?" Khan hissed.

"Just thought I'd warn you that they've toughened up the obstacle course. Raised the climbing walls about ten meters." Khan furrowed his brow.

"They haven't changed that course for years. Why now?"

"Me and some of the other augments complained that it was too easy." And then came that saccharine look of concern. "You'll be alright, won't you?"

"Why wouldn't I be? I'm as good as any of you," Khan replied. Amrit looked at him condescendingly.

"Khan…it's no secret that you're not…at the same level as the rest of the program."

"Sohn," Khan growled.

"What? There's no use sugarcoating it; you were never going to be a soldier for the British, and that's the only reason you're with us. It's not something to be ashamed of; you can't help that the scientists made you only marginally better than a human." All pretense of friendliness was gone, now, and Amrit was smirking at the elder boy. Khan's hands were shaking with rage, itching to reach for the boy's skull and just squeeze until that enormous head of his finally shrank down to an appropriate size, bone cracking under the force…

But Khan couldn't. Instead, he could only swallow his anger, turn and walk away.

"Go ahead, snub me; _rache _will come!" Khan stopped.

"_What_ will come?" he demanded, disgustedly.

"_Rache_-it's the German word for revenge," Amrit said proudly. Khan was less than impressed by the lad's Germanglish.

"Sohn, don't talk out loud; you lower the IQ of the entire battalion every time you open your mouth."

"I'd think that'd make you feel better about yourself," Sohn retorted, but Khan was already halfway out the door, furious. _Don't bother with him. Look at the obstacle course-see what they've changed._

Gradually calming down, Khan surveyed the obstacle course. The climbing wall at the beginning of the course had, indeed, been extended by about ten meters. That wasn't the only change made; with growing frustration and irritation, Khan realized that the final tower at the end of the circuit (about ten meters south of the first climbing wall) had been stripped of half its footholds; the ramp that came about halfway through the track was twice as steep and appeared to have been stripped of its rubber grips; and the monkey bars that had previously been the easiest part of the course were now spaced so far apart the cadets would practically need airplanes to get from one to the other.

This was truly an augment's obstacle course, and Khan was furious. It was one thing when they asked him to jog around their kiddy park, but _this_ was not something he would do for them.

"Alright, quit staring everyone, line up!" Halvidar Guthrapoli, the head drillmaster, called. The cadets instantly lined themselves up into a neat, disciplined line, arranged by rank. He could practically hear Sergeant Gregory satisfaction at that. Three years after their first meeting, Gregory still could barely get Khan to care enough about being a soldier to really try, but he had at least gotten the boy to stop openly rebelling. Surprisingly, Gregory was one of the few parts of his life Khan _didn't_ hate. Khan found in Gregory a kindred spirit-a man betrayed by the British government and shipped off to India, where the military would utterly waste his talents.

"You'll be running one by one, as usual. As this is Cadet Singh's last session with us before he is integrated into the regular army, he'll be permitted to go first." And there went the sigh of relief-the best time wouldn't be the first time.

That was when something inside Khan snapped. He wouldn't work hard for these people, but he wouldn't let them think that about him. He would make them eat every word they ever said about him being _subpar_ and _below the usual standards._

When Guthrapoli gave the command, he bolted down the track towards the first wall and threw himself up the wall, virtually flying upwards. He made it to the top within thirty seconds, surprising everyone present, but the burst of effort so early was already leaving Khan lightheaded. He wasn't used to this level of exertion, but he wasn't finishing last again.

Suddenly, Khan saw it: the final tower was only ten meters south and three meters up. While that jump was impossible for a human, it might just be possible for an augment. Technically, he would still be completing the course; he'd just bypass the majority of the quarter mile track in a single leap.

Then again, the jump would be difficult even for Amrit Sohn with a running start; there could be no running start for Khan, and, whether due to genetic inferiority or apathy, he had never quite been able to match India's boy wonder physical prowess. And if he failed, the cost would be high; aside from the fact he would certainly have the worst time, that was a 40 meter fall in front of every cadet int he Augment program. Even if Khan managed to survive, his dignity wouldn't.

But today, Khan didn't care. This was the day he would make them all feel like the idiots they were. He turned around to the consternation of every cadet and officer observing, he crouched and jumped.

He didn't hear the gasps of shock from the cadets, the stunned chuckle from the Halvidar, or Gregory's muttered curses and prayers to a God he hadn't spoken to in years that "the pigheaded fool won't fall and crack his oversized head open." He only saw the final tower coming closer, closer, almost within reach when he began to fall. His fingers just barely brushed the platform, but he couldn't solidify his grip.

For a glorious moment, Khan closed his eyes and imagined he was flying. Subpar indeed; he was the only one who could fly.

Then he hit the ground; there was a crunch; an explosion of pain; and the world cut to black.


	4. Afghanistan or Iraq?

_11.12.2020_

Khan never liked his personal doctor. It wasn't anything that the man-Dr. Jittender Watwe from the Punjab province-had done himself; Khan just hated his doctors on principal because they generally treated him like a laboratory experiment.

Not that he wasn't one. He just would have liked them to have put a _little_ effort into deceiving him.

Unfortunately, when one falls from a height of 40 meters, there is no getting around the fact that the first person he will see upon waking up will (probably) be his doctor. Even more unfortunate is the fact that a man who is recovering from such a fall will not have the patience to accept this justification of his situation and would resent the presence of any man he disliked regardless of the letters at the end of his name.

"What are you doing here?" Khan hissed. Dr. Watwe looked up suddenly, startled.

"Ah, you're awake," the man said, his Punjabi accent waving through his words like a stream over a riverbed. "You took quite a fall."

"Obviously."

"You are very lucky, Cadet, that your fall only caused superficial damage." Superficial damage? What the blazes was the man talking about? The fall had knocked Khan unconscious, and while his tolerance might be lower than that of the other Augments, it took a lot to knock out any Augment-even a sub-par one. He was no doctor, but Khan was fairly certain that his loss of consciousness indicated severe brain trauma.

And yet, he realized with a start, his thought processes were not hampered in the least. He felt completely normal, a few aches and pains notwithstanding.

"It wasn't superficial," Khan said mostly to himself, "I just heal quickly." Watwe shook his head.

"No, your wounds weren't very severe at all. It looked pretty bad because you got a nasty scratch on your head and had a lot of bleeding, but when we actually took a look at you we saw you were, on the whole, just fine. Probably just fainted from the exertion and shock, is all. Understandable, given how hard you pushed yourself." Now Khan was angry-partially because he knew he had been worse off than Watwe was letting on, partially because he knew he was right about pushing himself too hard. Khan was weak, and he knew it, but the very human Dr. Watwe was not someone he would take that from.

"I didn't _faint,"_ Khan growled, his eyes stinging with angry tears he was determined would not fall. "I was knocked unconscious. I've always been a fast healer; never had to spend a day in the medcenter in my life until today." Dr. Watwe looked around the room, as though afraid, and then hurried to the door. Khan smirked in satisfaction: he had frightened away the coward. Just as Khan was congratulating himself on his ability as a bully, though, Watwe did not leave: he only closed the door, then hurried to the window and shut the windows.

"Let's suppose, hypothetically, that what you say is true," Dr. Watwe said in a low voice in a tone that suggested Khan should shut up. "Let's suppose, hypothetically, that you came in with a broken hip, a cracked skull, a punctured lung, and a broken spine that should have left you a quadriplegic. Hypothetically, within a minute of my making that assessment, you were wiggling your toes and breathing perfectly normally." Watwe held Khan's gaze steadily. "Such an incident is impossible, though; other augments in the program have sustained lesser injuries and were disabled for at least two days. If, hypothetically, this was the case, I would be required to withdraw my affirmation of your medical fitness to be deployed, and you would spend the next few years-possibly the rest of your life-as a lab rat, being poked and prodded until scientists could figure out how to transmit this characteristic to subsequent generations of Augments. Hypothetically, if I know you at all from being your doctor for the last few years, Cadet, I know that you hate being treated like a lab rat even more than you hate being molded into a soldier." Khan swallowed hard. Suddenly, Watwe smiled. "Lucky for you, you only fainted from over-exertion. We'll be deployed for integration into the regular army next week."

"'We?'" Khan repeated.

"In light of this incident, the higher ups have decided it would be best for your emotional well-being to be around familiar faces."

"Emotional wellbeing-I'm not suicidal!" Khan exploded. "It was an _accident_."

"Of course it was. It doesn't change the fact that I've been assigned to your division as the field medic. If I'm not mistaken, your drill sergeant has just been reassigned to join us, as well."

"Who, Guthrapoli?"

"No, the English one; Gregors? Gregson?"

"Gregory," Khan answered. This was an interesting turn of events. While he was grateful to have Gregory by his side-he would have missed the old man-he wasn't sure how much he wanted an untrained science nerd following him across the battlefield, demanding to take his blood pressure and asking such asinine questions as "how are you _feeling,_ Khan?"

But there was something in Dr. Watwe's bearing that gave him pause. The straightness of his back, or the purpose in his walk, or perhaps his ability to hold Khan's gaze without wavering (none of the other doctors could do that).

"You were an army doctor before," Khan surmised.

"Yeah." Khan mulled over this for a moment.

"Seen a lot of injuries, then? Violent deaths?"

"Well, yes, of course," Watwe answered, furrowing his brow. "Enough for a lifetime. Far too much." Khan wasn't buying it. It was too rehearsed; it flowed too easily off the tongue. to be true.

"Ready to see some more?" Khan pressed. Watwe didn't answer; he would rather the answer be kept hidden. As his eyes flickered disdainfully across the room in what should have been a hospital but what was a biomedical laboratory instead, though, his true feelings on the matter bled through.

_Oh, gods, yes._

Khan could grow to like his doctor.

Watwe turned to leave the room.

"Get some rest, Cadet. You've got a long life ahead of you."

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Khan called suddenly. Watwe stopped and turned.

"What was that?"

"Last I heard I was either going to be deployed in Afghanistan or Iraq. Where are we going?" Watwe smiled bitterly.

"Doesn't really matter, does it? We'll be away from here."

Yes, Khan _did_ like his doctor.


	5. Not an Advantage

_5.9.2012_

Alan Hale liked to think he knew Joey Conrad fairly well; he had, after all, been visiting the boy twice monthly for the last year. In that time, he had become the boy's friend and confidante, the only person Joey trusted enough to be honest about what he _really_ thought of the world he lived in. And as jarring and blunt as the boy's honesty might be at times, it was highly refreshing to a man who spent the rest of his time dealing with ideologues and bureaucrats. For his part, Joey appreciated having someone to talk to; for all his enthusiasm and jauntiness, Joey was a lonely misfit, a thinker in a group of drones. His friendship with the so-called British Government made him less alone, and Alan's visits never failed to put a smile on his face.

Until today, that is.

Today, Joey wasn't eagerly talking Alan's ear off about his future exploits pirating ships on the high seas. Today, he wasn't bouncing with his seat with excitement. Today, he was fidgeting nervously. Today, he refused to make eye contact. Today, he had not once smiled. At first, alan had tried to treat it like a normal interview-asking Joey how he was doing, what he had been up to lately, how were his groupmates and his teachers treating him-but after getting nothing more than "yes, sir," "no, sir," "very well, sir," and "thank you, sir," for five minutes straight, Alan decided enough was enough.

"Is everything okay, Joey?" Joey bit his lip. "It's alright; you can tell me."

"It's stupid," the boy muttered.

"I don't think it's stupid." Joey blushed and looked up at Alan.

"It's a book." The admission was unexpected, but in retrospect, not surprising. Alan had encouraged Joey to read whatever books he could find. If he were doing his job _properly_, the case worker would have encouraged him to do the opposite; Joey already had too much imagination for his superiors' liking, and reading would only strengthen his discontent. Since he _wasn't_ doing his job properly, though, that had, in fact, been Alan's intention. It was to be expected, Alan reflected, that Joey would become disturbed as he realized how wrong his world was.

"I see. And what book was this?"

"_The Swiss Family Robinson."_ Ah, yes, that _would_ bother a boy with no family to speak of. "It was a nice story; I liked how they stayed together. That's what a family does, isn't it?" Alan nodded slowly. "Yes, I liked that, sir. I liked that very much." His lip quivering, Joey's voice cracked and he stopped abruptly. As the tears began to fall, Alan hurried around the table and wrapped the boy up in a hug.

Alan knew he shouldn't have; he knew it was an even clearer breach of his objectivity than the subtle favoritism he had been showing Joey recently; he knew it was only stringing the boy along, letting him think that he might have someone he could count on. But behind the icy facade he put up for the rest of the world, Alan had a soft heart.

"Shhh, shhh. It's alright."

"Why can't I have a family?" Joey gasp. Alan had no answer. There was no good reason for why a boy as bright and wonderful as Joey Conrad should be alone. He could only hug Joey tighter, wondering how the boy had managed to get such a reaction out of a man who usually cringed at the thought of anything more intimate than a firm handshake.

"I don't want to be alone," Joey sobbed.

"You're not alone. I'm here. I'm here, Joey." Even as Alan repeated the words, he knew he had just made the future very, very messy for himself. Eventually he would have to choose whether or not to put Joey into combat training; he would have to evaluate Joey's psychological state; and, eventually, he would have to let him go.

In Alan's line of work, caring was not an advantage. And it crushed him to think that this sweet, sensitive boy would have to learn that one day, too.


End file.
